


Never Get a Second Chance (To Make A First Impression)

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Complete, Dubious Consent, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hotel Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Prostitution, Rentboys, Sexual Inexperience, Size Difference, non-specified underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-11-07 21:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: For the SPN Kink Meme (John has left Dean (14+) and Sammy at a motel and they run out of money. Dean is desperate and hears that there are men who pay top dollar to take someones virginity. He decides that this is the best way to make money quick and arranges for a guy to meet with. The guy isn't horrible but he's also the type of guy to pay a teenager to let him pop his cherry. He preps him, uses lube but he gets off on the fact that Dean is uncomfortable and overwhelmed and makes him talk about how it feels etc. + if they don't use a condom + if Dean reluctantly gets off on it).Non-specified underage (Dean is a teenager and younger than his partners) and non-con/dub-con because Dean is in it for the money.  I'm adding tags as I think of them, but this sticks pretty close to the summary, so definitely read that carefully before you proceed!





	1. Chapter 1

The guy arrives right on time, sliding casually into the booth across from Dean. That’s got to be a good thing, right? Dean figures when you make this kind of deal, you want someone—reliable.

“Hi,” the guy says. You’re Kyle’s friend?” Dean nods. It was Kyle’s fake ID that had bought him the beer sweating in his clammy hands, Kyle who had given him a phone number to call, _if you ever really need cash, no questions asked_. “Good. You can call me, uh, John,” the guy says. 

Dean is shaking his head before he even realizes it.

“No?” there’s a faint tinge of surprise in the guy’s voice. No doubt he’s usually the one giving the directions. After all, it’s his money. Dean probably should shut up now, before the guy decides he’s more trouble than he’s worth. School shoes, he reminds himself. Bookbag for Sammy. But he just—John?—no. He can’t. He lets his eyes flick up to see the man’s face: he’s smiling a little. 

“Ok. Not John, then. Bob?”

Dean has an instant, horrific vision of Uncle Bobby and—absolutely not. He shakes his head again, firmly. 

The man is smiling fully now, charmed by the novelty of Dean’s stubbornness. He leans back against the upholstery, relaxed and ready to be amused. “All right, kid. You tell me. Who am I?”

Nerves have turned Dean’s mouth into a Sahara; he takes a sip of beer. “Ken,” he says. He’s not sure he’s ever met a real-life Ken but the guy’s sculpted, sandy hair makes him think of Barbie’s goofy boyfriend. Kyle’s half-sisters had a shoebox of Barbies, mostly knock-off ‘fashion dolls’ made in China. Dad had been out of town a lot that spring and summer, and Kyle’s mom didn’t always come home at night, so sometimes Dean and Kyle would pool their money for pizza. They’d pile into one motel room, Dean and Sam and Kyle and Jenny and Ashley. The girls would bring their Barbie doll collection; Sam would bring a book.

Dean lets his gaze drift back up to Ken’s face. He’s is in his thirties. Maybe early forties? Dean’s not good at estimating adults’ ages and he’s feels weird staring, so he tries to sneak glimpses from under his eyelashes, keeping his focus on his beer. Only later will he realize how coy that made him look. Ken is wearing a button-down shirt, good quality. Underneath, his shoulders and chest look solid. He’s one of those business travelers who wouldn’t dream of staying at a hotel without a gym. Hotels like this one: Dean had seen the signs for the gym while he’d worked up the nerve to cross the lobby to the hotel bar where he’s sitting right now.

“Alright. So I’m Ken. And who are you, green eyes?”

Every pseudonym, alias, and fake ID Dean has ever had desert him instantly. The only name he can think of is _Sam_, and so he says “Dean” after a pause so long and awkward that he knows it sounds like he’s lying.

“Mmm?” Ken shifts again, leaning over the table, close enough to whisper in Dean’s ear. “Rebel without a cause? Let’s see how well you follow directions, rebel. Finish your beer, then finish mine. Then come on up.” 

Ken slides his beer across the table, then he suddenly leans over and claps Dean on the shoulder—_long time, no see_—before he slips out of the booth and cuts around a corner to the brightly lit lobby. For a second, Dean can’t figure out the gesture, but then he realizes that their booth is tucked into an awkward dark angle, mostly obscured by a large fake fichus. No one is watching, but if anyone were, all they would see is see two back-slapping road warriors sharing a totally platonic beer in a public space before their paths diverge forever. Can't even see the bar from here. Really, you wouldn’t even know the booth was there if you hadn’t been explicitly told where to go after calling a mysterious number scribbled onto a scrap of paper,_ "for emerginsies"_. (Kyle couldn't spell real good;he'd missed a lot of school, between one thing and another). But Dean had found it. He’s a rebel who is good at taking direction. 

Dean finishes his own beer in three big swallows. And then—what the hell, shame to waste i—he reaches for the bottle Ken had left. It’s an expensive imported lager, still mostly full. The flavor unfolds on his tongue and Dean knows he won’t even feel the alcohol for another ten minutes. Under it, like a coaster, Dean can see a hotel napkin. The bar is so dimly lit that he has to squint to the two numbers inked on it: one is a three digit room-number. The other, bigger number is the price Dean had quoted to the mysterious voice on the phone. 


	2. Chapter 2

It had taken three weeks of pizza orders before Dean had worked up the nerve to ask Kyle where the money was coming from. Not that Dean hadn’t been calculating the cost of that extra cheese, or the hefty tips for the delivery drivers. But he comes from a culture where asking no questions is a cardinal virtue, so he’d held his tongue until one night, Kyle had come over with two large pizzas, and his sisters had come over with two brand-new, brand-name Barbies, still in their boxes.

Even then, Dean had waited until the kids were asleep. Ashley, Jenny, and their dolls took up all of Sam’s bed, because Sam had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the TV, a slice of pizza still in his hand. Growing boy, Dean had thought, fondly. Then he had turned to where Kyle was stretched out on his own twin bed, a nearly empty pizza box on his stomach.

“Thanks for the pizza. I can pay you back next week; my Dad’ll be back from Michigan.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kyle had shrugged, casually. He’d kicked off his shoes when he’d sat down on Dean’s bed, which was nice of him.

“No, I mean, I bet it was, you know, expensive. Even to get them to deliver out here.” There’s a delivery surcharge if you live on the wrong side of the tracks. 

Kyle had looked over and raised an eyebrow, like he knew what Dean was fishing for. “I got a friend up at the hotel.”

Dean had sat, waiting. Dad always said there was an art to interrogation, and sure enough, Kyle continues. “There are always lots of business guys passing through. Sometimes they need somebody local. To do stuff. Pays good.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure. Okay,” Dean had said, because he hadn’t wanted to admit that he didn’t understand. Later, though, after Kyle had put the pizza box on the floor and rolled over to sleep, Dean had tried to puzzle it out. The hotel was a multistory tower right on the highway and part of an upscale national chain. Nothing like their motel. It had a restaurant, a gym, a bar, a full-service laundry instead of one leaky washing machine. Any errands that needed to be run could be organized from the front desk. 

Apparently, Kyle “does stuff” at the hotel at least every Thursday, because he and his sisters start coming over every Friday, sometimes with pizza, sometimes with Chinese. He’ll never take any money for it, which is actually a good thing because Dad is not back in a week, or even in two weeks. Kyle’s mom is not around much either. (“New boyfriend,” Kyle mutters, low enough that Dean knows he’s meant to keep it from Sam and the girls).

As June pushes into July, and there’s still no word from Dad, Dean starts to get a little worried. Dad had left money, but things are expensive this close to the city. Dean works out a deal with the motel, doing all the laundry, huge heavy loads of sheets and towels, in exchange for their room. Sammy is growing like a weed, though, and he can’t eat towels. There’s a mechanic’s shop out on the highway that hires Dean during the day and pays him under the table to sort tools and clean up. Even with Kyle buying pizza and insisting that Sam eat the leftovers, Dean isn’t really earning enough to buy food for both of them as well as clothes at the rate that Sam is growing. Also, it’s a three mile walk there and back in the summer heat every day, which cuts into his laundry time. If he hasn’t heard from Dad by September, Dean decides, he’ll call Uncle Bobby. Otherwise, Sam won’t have shoes for school.

One Friday, after working all day, the heat and the six-mile round-trip does him in. He falls asleep mid-bite, waking to find himself half-seated against the headboard, leaning against Kyle’s shoulder.

“Uhm, sorry,” he stretches and rubs the sleep from his eyes, hoping he hasn’t drooled on Kyle’s shirt. 

“S’good, don’t worry about it,” Kyle replies, ruffling his hair and moving a paper plate of lo mein out of Dean’s lap and onto the floor.

“Sammy?” he croaks, still half-asleep. 

“Out like a light,” Kyle whispers.

Dean cranes his neck anyway, just to be sure. And there’s Sam in the other twin bed, his head on Jenny’s feet, with Ashley on the pull-out cot, all three of them lulled to sleep by the white noise of the crackly TV and the rattly chug of the motel’s overworked air conditioning. Reassured, Dean stretches out on the mattress next to Kyle.

“It’s cute, how you look out for him,” Kyle whispers to the ceiling. Dean squints at his profile, trying to decide if he should object to being called _cute_. Kyle wasn’t saying it meanly though.

“You look out for your sisters,” points out Dean. The kids almost never wake up once they’ve fallen asleep, but he whispers anyway. It feels like he and Kyle are sharing a secret. 

“Yeah. You know….” Kyle hesitates, then rolls over to face Dean. The motel twin is so narrow, there’s barely any space between them. They are so close, Dean can feel the warmth of Kyle’s breathing. “Sometimes, I don’t think anybody would understand this except people like us.”

_This_. This crazy, make-shift, waiting life: too many adults—teachers, social workers, CPS—but never the ones you want. _People like us. _Dean snorts quietly. “I know what you mean.”

Dean’s eyes have just started to drift closed when…

“You’re all freckled,” observes Kyle. “Your nose.” 

“Lost m'hat,” Dean replies, sleepy and slurring. The ragged trucker’s had he’d found by the side of the highway one day had gone back whence it came, blown right off his head by the downdraft of a semi as he’d walked home from the mechanic’s shop last week.

“I like ‘em.”

Dean’s eyes snap open. “What?”

“Your freckles.” Kyle is staring at him boldly, his head six inches away on the pillow. Dean can practically count his eyelashes. “I like them.” He taps the tip of Dean’s nose, runs his finger up the bridge.

Dean isn’t sure what to say. He doesn’t really want to say anything, he decides. He doesn’t want to interrupt this moment: TV static, Kyle’s rapid breathing, his slow and gentle touch. It’s been so long since anyone touched him.

“Uhm, yeah?” he manages finally.

“Yeah. They make me wanna, uhh…” Kyle doesn’t say what he wants to do. He just leans in, so slowly that the motel pillowcase barely wrinkles, and touches his lips to Dean’s. 

Dean has forgotten to breathe since Kyle had touched him, and when his body finally rebels and his mouth pops open on a gasp, he feels Kyle’s tongue on his teeth. 

“Shhh,” Kyle breathes when he pulls back and Dean realizes he’s made a small, wanting noise. “Don’t wanna wake the kids.” 

Kyle is a year and three-quarters older than Dean, who is four years and a quarter years older than Sammy, who is three and a half years older than Jenny, who is a year older than Ashley. They are _all_ kids. But Dean knows that he and Kyle are different. They’re the oldest. They’re the ones who are in charge when Dad is away on hunting trips and Kyle’s mom is away...doing whatever she does when she goes away. They are the ones who have to be responsible. The ones who have to know things.

The second time, it’s Dean who kisses Kyle: quick, before he can lose his nerve. The eager, sloppy kisses that fall half on Kyle's mouth and half on his chin where Dean can feel the prickle of beard-burn. Kyle has to shave more regularly than Dean does, and something about that extra year and three-quarters makes Dean crazy. That’s the only excuse he has for the way he suddenly has to erase that last inch of motel mattress between them and plaster himself against as much of Kyle as he can reach. 

Kyle’s cock is hard. Dean can feel it against his thigh. Dean’s own cock is thickening, too. His hips are twitching even though he know he has to stay quiet, can’t move too much on this stupid, too-small bed. Kyle seems to have the same idea, at the same moment. It’s like he knows what Dean is thinking. And he has a solution. 

“Here—quiet, just. Move your…” Even as he’s whispering, Kyle is moving Dean, turning him bodily, wedging him on the far side of the narrow bed, away from the TV and their sleeping siblings. Dean can sense him turning to survey the room, to make sure that the kids are still deeply asleep. And then Kyle settles down behind Dean, his broader chest against Dean’s back, shielding them from view.

It’s nice, his head pillowed on Kyle’s arm. But it is not enough. Dean wants to _see_ him. To kiss again. He’ll be quiet this time. He’s about to say as much when he feels Kyle’s hand settle on his hip. Then dip lower. 

Kyle reaches from behind to silently undo the button and the zip of Dean’s jeans, then slips his hand into Dean’s boxers. They’re already sticky with pre-cum and Dean should be embarrassed, but he’s not because the way Kyle is kissing his neck just makes him want to spread his legs like a slut (that’s what Mrs. Manjoor, who runs the motel, calls Kyle’s mother when she thinks Dean is too busy with the sheets and the towels to eavesdrop). Kyle’s own hips are moving against Dean’s ass, shoving him incrementally across the softened, sprung old mattress, pushing Dean’s cock into his big, rough hand.

“Feel so good, Dean. So hot,” Kyle breathes into Dean’s ear. And then, almost to himself, “Fuck, I’m close…”

That makes Dean arch back a little, grind his ass against Kyle’s dick, a firm ridge behind their two layers of worn denim. He’s not sure what makes him think of it; it just feels like a natural thing to do. Kyle surprises him by shifting his weight, pinning him into the mattress, riding his ass and jacking his cock and it’s so much, too much, too good. Dean has to bite the pillow to keep from crying out when he comes, harder than he ever has on his own. 

***

The next morning, Ashley wakes them all by wailing about her Barbie’s missing shoe and Dean pulls himself hastily away from Kyle in the tangle of sheets. He doesn’t think the kids notice. They’re already scouring the motel’s shitty carpet for the tiny plastic high heel.

Four hours later, while Dean is shoving towels into the motel washer, Kyle turns up on the doorstep of the tiny utility room.

“Hey. I just. Uhm. About. Please don’t…uh.”

Dean blinks. “I’m not going to tell.” 

Kyle looks instantly relieved. It hadn’t occurred to him that Dean doesn’t have anyone _to _tell. 

Dean looks down at the bundle of laundry. He sometimes sneaks his clothes and Sam’s in with the motel laundry, to save quarters. He’d had to wash out the boxers he’d worn last night. And his jeans. He glances up at Kyle. “Just so you know. I liked it.”

***

The next Friday, Dean can barely wait until Sam and the girls have nodded off. He comes when Kyle, rocking him into the mattress, gasps, “Dean?”

“Yuh-yeah?”

“Your freckles—d’they go, uh. All the way down?”

The next weekend, Dean insists on kissing longer. Until he’s really sure the kids are far enough off in dreamland that they won’t notice when he pulls Kyle into the tiny motel bathroom to show him that his freckles do, indeed, go all the way down. Kyle, reverent, gets down on his knees.

***

The first weekend in August, and Dean hasn’t heard from Dad since school let out, and the owner at the mechanic shop is dropping hints about how his nephew needs a job (needs Dean’s job). Their TV is on the fritz, showing only one channel—the weather—and though Mrs. Manjoor has refused to fix it, she has agreed, just this once, to let the kids eat their pizza in the motel office where the TV not only has all the channels, it has cable!

“Cable, Dean!” Sam repeats, like it is the Holy Grail. He cannot imagine while his brother is dragging his feet. 

“I _know_, Sammy. And I said I’ll be there. I just have to sort something out, first.”

Sam gives him a dubious look, too old for his young face. Sometimes, when Dad has to _sort something out_, they don’t see him for six months. 

“Kyle’s gonna help me, but we need you to look after the girls. After all, you’re older'n them.” Dean flatters until Sam agrees. 

In fact, Dean’s plans for the night consist of doing to Kyle what Kyle’s been doing to him. Showing Kyle what he’s learned: lips over teeth, tongue just touching that ridge at the head. The last few times, in the bathroom after the kids were asleep and Kyle had jerked him off in bed, Kyle had cupped his balls and even eased a spit-slick finger back to touch Dean’s hole. He’s gotten inside once or twice, making Dean shake against the flimsy bathroom door so hard that he’d worried the rattling would wake Sam. Dean had bitten his own wrist to keep quiet, the pain helping him hold out a few seconds longer against the hot warmth of Kyle’s mouth, his gently probing fingers.

“You don’t have to,” Kyle says immediately, as soon as Dean pushes him to sit on the bed and starts fumbling with his belt. But he’s rock-hard by the time Dean licks him and he moans when Dean starts to suck. Dean gags the first time—Kyle is bigger, goes deeper than he’d expected—but he gets there in the end, Kyle stroking his hair, murmuring how _good_ he is. Dean can’t help but rub one out, kneeling at Kyle’s feet after the older boy comes, his cheek resting on Kyle's thigh. Fuck, he'd needed this, the release, after the week he's had. They are both relaxed and half-dressed when Kyle tugs Dean up into the bed.

“Should getta kids,” Dean murmurs. He’s sleepy and content and kind of wants to stay like this for awhile, with Kyle licking his own taste out of Dean’s mouth. But he’s also lost track of time and he vaguely thinks Sam could get up to trouble with too much cable TV. 

“Soon, Dean. Wanna tell you something. About the hotel.”

That’s how Dean ends up in the hotel bar, waiting to discreetly follow a stranger to his room. Because four weeks ago, Kyle had eased two fingers inside him and whispered about how much he got paid to sleep with businessmen in the big, name-brand hotel. “I always tell them it’s my first time,” he’d said, “Pay more that way. Yeah, push against me—good.”

“But…strangers?” Dean had gasped as Kyle had curled his fingers. “I mean, like, complete—oh, God!”

“Yeah, thatta boy. They’re the best kind, strangers. ‘Cause you’re never gonna meet them again.” Kyle had kissed his shoulder. “I, uh, think about you. While they’re fucking me. Think about the noises you make.”

“H-how….?” Dean had lost track of his question, his voice fading into a whine.

“Got a number. Call up, see if anyone needs _a local guide_. That’s, like, the code. It’s good if you ever really need cash. No questions asked. ”

Somehow, Dean had managed to retain the details, even after coming his brains out (once, with Kyle’s fingers teasing his prostate, and again, when Kyle was licking his belly clean and found his nipples instead). Good thing, too, because two weeks later Kyle’s mother had reappeared in her rusty Camaro and hustled Kyle and his sisters off to her mother’s in Indiana to enroll them in school there. And that was the end of that. 

***

Dean hadn’t known what hit him. He’d been so befuddled that he’d been late to work twice and then had accidentally knocked over a whole bin of just-sorted tools at the mechanic’s shop, which had been all they’d needed to fire him (nephew waiting in the wings). He'd arrived back at the motel in time to hear that, after months of radio silence, Dad had called. Dean had missed the call because he'd been too busy getting fired. Mrs. Manjoor had taken a message: promising Latin text found in monastery near Lake Superior, requires immediate investigation, might be back end of the month, look after Sammy. 

That had been the day, unemployed, abandoned, good for nothing, that Dean had reached under his mattress (the same mattress where he and Kyle had…) to fish out the envelope that Kyle had given him in the rush of packing every sock and Barbie doll to start over again Terre Haute. When Kyle had shoved it into his hands, Dean had almost thought it might have an address on it. That Kyle wanted to be his pen-pal or something. But no: the envelope is hotel stationary and inside is a one of Kyle’s fake IDs (age 21, so cashiers wouldn’t hassle him when he used his Mom’s food stamps) and slip of paper with a name and a phone number.


	3. Chapter 3

The napkin with its two numbers inevitably reminds Dean of Kyle’s scrap of paper. He had stuffed it in his pocket at the time, only to stay awake most of that night, running the numbers as he lay in bed (the same bed where he and Kyle had almost…). Dad won’t get here before Sam needs new shoes, a backpack for school. Mrs. Manjoor has started to make noises about rescinding the laundry-for-rent deal, which has already gone on longer than either of them had expected. Bobby would take them in, but it will take money to get to Bobby’s place. _Easy money, no questions asked. _

The next morning, Dean had snuck away from the laundry room and into the motel’s office. He’d called the number and when the man whose name matched Kyle’s paper had answered, Dean had asked if he was hiring local guides. 

Dean tells himself he is just doing what's necessary, but he knows he isn't being entirely self-less. Call it curiosity. The whole summer had been laundry and looking after Sam and moving tools around the mechanic’s garage. One day like the next, one week bleeding into another. Sure, Kyle had been his friend, Kyle had felt good, but Kyle had also been interesting, new, unexpected. He had awakened something Dean wanted to explore a little more. If it can’t be Kyle, it might as well be worth it.

Dean finishes Ken’s beer in record time and pockets the napkin before he loses his nerve—or his meal ticket. Ken’s casual approach and the way he’d cleverly orchestrated plausible deniability by having Dean come to him made Dean think this was not the first time the businessman had conducted this sort of merger. No point in letting him change his mind.

***

The alcohol hits Dean just as he’s stepping out of the elevator on the sixth floor. A combination of cheap beer, Ken’s expensive lager, and the fact that he hasn’t eaten much because he wanted to leave enough cereal for Sam has Dean feeling loose and easy by the time he knocks on room 613. The door swings open under his fist: Ken is not going to let himself be seen opening the door to some jailbait local teen. He’s standing at the minibar, though, and he says, “Hey," hands Dean a plastic cup just as casually as if he’s not paying him an obscene amount of money for an obscene act.

“Hey,” Dean replies, and takes the cup. Ken has shed his shoes and socks. His dress-shirt is unbuttoned. He looks younger and slightly disheveled in chinos and an untucked white undershirt.

“Have a seat,” Ken offers. There’s a desk chair, tucked neatly under the matching desk, and an upholstered chair that holds a briefcase, so Dean perches on the bed. Scotch heats its way down his throat when he takes a sip from his cup. Dean turns to glance out the window—he can just see the edge of the mechanic’s garage near the highway on-ramp. He feels the mattress sink as Ken sits at his side. When he turns back, Ken’s lips meet his.

The kissing is…good. Deep and warm and wet. Kissing had been his favorite part, with Kyle. Well, almost his favorite. More Scotch, from Ken’s tongue. At some point, Ken plucks Dean’s cup from his loosening fingers and puts it on the nightstand. At some point, Dean ends up with his leg thrown over Ken’s. Still kissing. Dean has always been a very tactile person: hopeless at anything that requires booksmarts, but clever with his hands, nimble, athletic, hyper-aware of where his body is in space. But now, somehow, he’s lost track of where he ends and Ken begins. Dean realizes that he’s started moving to meet Ken’s hands as they palm his thighs, that now it is his tongue learning Ken’s mouth.

There’s a breath of hotel air conditioning on his back when Ken slides under his t-shirt. Dean’s hips surge forward like he’s been electrocuted at the warmth of a hand on his back. The movement is so out of proportion to its antecedent that Ken stops mouthing his throat and stares, genuinely surprised. “Fuck. You _really_ haven’t, have you?”

Dean shakes his head silently. Kyle had been lying about his virgin status, but Dean had told the truth. Almost anything Ken could name—he really hasn’t. He and Kyle had barely even started, as Dean is beginning to realize. Something about Dean’s downcast eyes must appeal, though, because Ken chucks Dean under the chin until he has to look up: “Don’t be shy, green eyes. You’re perfect. Gonna make it so good for you.”

Once Ken peels off Dean’s shirt, they kiss for longer. Dean is shivering slightly: nerves and adrenaline and too much air-conditioning. He lets Ken push him back against the pile of plush hotel pillows and closes his eyes. He likes not knowing where he’ll get touched next—collarbone, nipple, bellybutton. With Kyle, he’d always kept his eyes open and his ears tuned for Sam or the kids. Not having to do that makes him feel free and reckless. Sam is back at the motel, reading; Dad is somewhere in Michigan; Kyle is gone: no one knows where Dean is or what he's doing.

That thought is so liberating that Dean lets Ken kiss him _everywhere. _He starts to feel warm in the cold room. Somehow, in the midst of the blind kissing, his shoes disappear. His socks. His ragged jeans. When Ken’s hot body shifts off him, the chill is enough to make Dean’s eyes pop open.

Ken is sitting on the corner of the mattress, just looking. Dean feels a hot blush flood his chest. He and Kyle had always kept their shirts on, sometimes their jeans, too, just undoing buttons and stealing moments and pulling fabric out of the way so they could lick and kiss and touch. Never properly undressing. Now he’s naked except for his boxers, which aren’t doing much to hide the beginnings of an erection. Ken has one hand on the nightstand’s drawerpull like the sight of Dean has frozen him.

“You’re gorgeous,” the man says, sounding a little awed. Dean’s eyes drop. No one has ever said anything like that to him before. He figures when you buy your partners over the phone, you never know what you’re getting—but he manages to stop himself from saying that out loud.

“And you’ve really never…?”

Dean shakes his head, not sure if his inexperience make him humiliated or proud. 

“Huh,” is all Ken says. He shucks off his unbuttoned shirt, slips off his own pants casually and without comment. He folds the clothes neatly and puts them on top of the upholstered chair, coming back to the bed in just underwear and his thin undershirt. He plucks an envelope from the open nightstand drawer. “Count it, if you want.”

Dean wants. And he does count it. (At the last minute, on the phone with Kyle’s contact, some crazy instinct had made him named a price that was $200 more than what Kyle had said he’d asked for. He hadn’t known what to say when the man on the other end, the procurer of local talent, had agreed without hesitation). The full sum is in the envelope, mostly in crisp $20 bills, a few $50s. He’s not sure what to say—thanks?—so he just leans over the edge of the bed to tuck the envelope into the pile of clothing he'd shed on the carpet. He’s not totally surprised when Ken rolls into the space he’s left behind and pulls Dean’s back against him. It's no different than Kyle, Dean tells himself. 

“So gorgeous,” Ken murmurs against the nape of Dean’s neck. Then his kisses wander up to Dean’s ears and his hands slip over Dean’s side and down inside his boxers. “Mmm, getting there,” he mutters when he cups Dean’s half-hard cock, like he’s making a mental note, like Dean is some kind of experiment. His hand is bigger than Kyle’s, but for a moment, Dean can close his eyes to pretend he is back at the motel. Except this bed is nicer than any he’d ever slept in there: bigger, firm in all the right places, soft everywhere else. Dean gasps when Ken’s thumb drags over his foreskin—that’s new, Kyle had never… 

Both of Ken’s hands are on him now, bracketing his hips. One hand loosely jacking him off, the other fingers stroking his balls, touching behind.

“Let’s get these these off,” Ken says, tugging the fabric of Dean’s boxers until he lifts his hips and lets Ken pull them down. Rolling onto his back, Dean feels weirdly exposed all over again: naked, his cock now leaking on his bare belly, while Ken kneels next to him, still half-dressed. But then Ken is kissing him again. Not just his mouth and his throat this time. His—his nipples, which are hard and tight in the cold hotel air and then warm and slick under Ken’s lips.

“Like that, huh?” Ken says and Dean hears himself make some sort of noise in his throat. An agreement he hadn’t meant to make, his body responding without his direction. Ken stretches over him again, fumbling for something in the nightstand. Then he’s back, kissing again. And Dean is letting him. Hell, Dean can feel himself _melting_ into the mattress. He jumps at the shock of Ken’s fingers touching his hole—cold! wet!—but Ken says, “shhh,” rather impatiently and throws a leg over his shin to keep him still. 

Lube, Dean realizes, and he’s not sure where that knowledge came from. Must have been something Kyle had mentioned when he’d told Dean about his money-making exploits. Between themselves, there had just been spit, and the lube is so much better that Dean feels himself open almost despite himself. “Yeah,” Ken grunts, “good boy,” and Dean is surprised to feel a burst of pleasure at the praise. The second finger goes in even more quickly and, though Dean tenses when he feels a third fingertip teasing his rim, he can also feel how hard Ken is getting. 

For the first time, Dean wonders if he’ll be able to take it. Failure at anything physical has just never been an option, so the thought hasn’t crossed his mind until just this second. Will Ken want his money back? Dean’s not sure he could work up the nerve to call the anonymous number a second time.

“C’mon, deep breath,” croons Ken. Dean is so busy thinking about Sam’s school shoes that he obeys without thinking. The new stretch is enough to make his eyes water. But Ken curls his finger and Dean’s hips lift right off the bed. Ken somehow adds more lube and then he’s working _inside_ Dean. It’s too sudden, the pleasure, so intense Dean starts to pull away, but Ken's free hand seizes his hip to hold him still.

“Don’t. It’ll be easier if you come first,” Ken says, dropping his head to suckle Dean’s nipple again. “Just let it happen.”

It happens: Ken’s thick, experienced fingers; his teasing mouth; Dean’s buzzing, half-drunk body. He ends up jerking his own cock, his arm working clumsily half-under Ken’s body as the older man leans over him to keep a slippery fingertip on Dean’s prostate. 

Ken is staring, Dean realizes, and he's not looking at Dean's cock: no, he's working three fingers into Dean's ass, stroking his thigh almost soothingly, but his hungry gaze is fixed on Dean's face. Dean bites his lip, sees Ken's breathing speed up. Dean’s hips jump against Ken’s, which force him back down: the rhythm is almost like they’re already fucking until Ken’s thumb slips up between Dean’s balls and he chokes and spills all over his own belly.

Dean can barely feel his toes as Ken wipes him off with a spare piece of cloth. Underwear, Dean realizes, when he feels the hot brand of Ken’s bare dick against his thigh for the first time. Ken is on top of him, Dean gasping for air between his kisses. 

“So pretty when you come,” Ken is whispering conspiratorially, “wanna make you come again.” Dean can barely hear him over the thunder of his own heartbeat, but he nods. Yes. Yes, that sounds like a great plan.

“Don’t need a condom, do we, green eyes?” Ken asks. His tone makes it sound like Dean should say no, so he shakes his head. No, no condom, just more kisses and more of Ken’s fingers touching that special—

The dizzying warmth of a forceful orgasm lasts until the precise moment that Ken gets his blunt cockhead against Dean’s virgin hole and starts to push. At which point it evaporates instantly.

Dean hisses in a breath. Jesus! He hadn’t thought—

“Shh, just breathe for me, like before,” Ken coaxes and Dean tries, he does, but it’s just…so _big_. His body is still pulsing from before, not quite coordinated enough to resist. Dean gets a hand on Ken’s belly, tries to push him away, but all he feels are Ken’s gym-trained abs, tight as they move his hips forward, pinning Dean against the mattress. 

“C’mon, let me in…” Ken is panting with excitement, his face fierce and flushed inches above Dean's.

Dean grabs what he can reach: a fistful of Ken’s undershirt. He doesn’t have enough leverage to pry Ken off, but his panicky brain urges him to try. Only when he arches his back in a desperate attempt at leverage, the change in position opens him to Ken’s relentless pressure. 

Dean hears himself moaning at the sensation of being breached: “I, I can’t…it’s too—” 

Ken dips his head, lips brushing Dean’s sweaty temple. “Yeah, tell me, beautiful. It’s too…?”

“It’s—it’s big,” Dean squawks. Scheherazade. Maybe if he talks enough, Ken will…slow down, ease up, go faster, finish sooner? Dean isn’t even sure what he wants now. “You’re so big inside me.” 

“That’s what all the girls say,” Ken chuckles, and Dean can feel that. Can feel Ken’s laughter in his own body. 

All the girls. Dean realizes he must look like a girl: on his back with a big man between his spread legs. He’d sort of imagined his first time would be from behind; that’s how he and Kyle had always…

“Feel good, though?” Ken says, nuzzling behind Dean’s ear.

Dean’s no dummy: he knows the only possible answer to that: “Uhm, yeah,” and then he adds, “so good,” trying to sound a little more enthusiastic. It _is_ feeling a little smoother, less piercing, now that Ken is actually inside. Gradually, Dean gets control of his breathing. Ken smears more lube around and the coolness helps, too. Dean finally dares to look down between them, sees his own legs hitched around Ken’s waist (like a girl, he thinks again). His cock is soft on his belly, but his nipples are still hard. 

Dean hiccups when Ken’s hips pump forward. Again. Again. Each thrust works him a little deeper and the lube is doing its work now: things are starting to feel slick and—not quite so much like too much anymore. He’s still got one hand fisted in Ken’s shirt, holding on like he’ll never let go; he can feel the muscles of Ken’s back as the man moves against him. So strong, and Dean's just taking it.

“Never had. Anyone—not inside me. Not. Like this,” Dean pants out between thrusts, partially to distract himself and partially because it is true. Why shouldn’t he say whatever pops into his head? Ken seems to like it when he talks. 

“Can’t hardly believe that,” Ken mumbles. “Pretty’s you are.” 

“True,” Dean insists, too breathless for an argument.

“Oh, I know. Can feel it. Can feel how tight you are, darling. But don't worry. I'll open you up, be your first.” Ken slides deep enough to hit Dean’s prostate and Dean feels another moan welling up inside him even before he registers the word _darling_.

After that, Ken nudges Dean’s prostate on every second or third stroke and things start to feel even better than _not too much_. _Darling_, Dean thinks, _green eyes, beautiful_: maybe there have been so many boys in so many hotel rooms that Ken can’t even keep their fake names straight. Oddly, that makes him feel better. He’s not Dean Winchester, of the hunting Winchesters, the good little soldier who would never be found on his back getting fucked like a girl for rent money. No: he’s _darling_, well on his way to a second orgasm and laughing all the way to the bank. Dean’s hips start moving almost without his noticing. Ken nips his ear and says, “Yeah, show me you like it, beautiful.” 

“Like it,” Dean echoes, “Deep in me. Stretching me open. My first,” he adds, guessing Ken that’s what Ken wants to hear

He guesses right: Ken jerks forward, pushing all the way inside so fast Dean can’t even cry out. Dean can feel the man's heavy balls slap the tender skin between his legs. Ken draws back, slowly, slowly, until Dean realizes that low keening sound is _him_, protesting the loss. There’s a moment where he can feel his hole fluttering around just the thick, swollen head of Ken’s cock before Ken’s hips snap forward and Dean moans as he is filled again. Soon the thrusts are hard and regular, Dean’s ass bouncing on the bed as Ken drives into him.

Everything is slick and hot and open. Dean’s cock is thick, now. It slaps his belly with each of Ken’s thrusts and he tries to get a hand around it, but his fingers end up between his legs instead.

“Feel how good you’re taking me?” Ken kisses him savagely. “Yeah, thatta boy.”

Kyle had said that once. Could he have learned it from…? Ken gets one of Dean’s ankles up on his shoulder, bends him in half, reaches deeper than he ever has before. All thoughts of Kyle evaporate.

Somehow, Ken rolls and Dean ends up on top, his knees spread wide to keep his balance. “Oh fuck,” he whines, feeling impaled on the big dick that stretches him in a new way like this. 

“Dirty mouth,” Ken observes, his eyes glittering as they take in every inch of Dean’s flushed skin. “Touch yourself. Touch yourself while you ride me.” Before Dean can confess that he doesn’t know what, doesn’t know how, Ken’s big hands are cupping his ass, showing him how to grind and rock. All Dean has to do is get a fist around his own cock. It’s good, it’s so good that Dean can hear himself babbling about it.

That doesn’t last long, though. Just as Dean starts to feel a new orgasm gathering in his belly, Ken is rolling him again, onto his stomach this time and there’s a moment where Dean is empty, hollow. Then Ken is plowing into him again, right into his prostate. Dean’s shaking, trembling so hard that he can’t get his legs under him. Ken’s big, heavy body blankets him, hips jerking against Dean’s ass. “Gonna come,” Ken growls. “Wanna come in you.”

Is that a question? A request? Is Dean supposed to answer? Ken reaches under him, twists his nipple, and Dean yelps, over-sensitive. He can’t tell if that feels good or not. Suddenly, everything is starting to feel like too much again. Dean’s inner thighs sting from rubbing against the hair on Ken’s body. His neck feels raw from Ken's stubbled kisses and his back is starting to ache. His hips feel like they’ll crack if Ken pounds into him any longer. He needs, he needs… Ken gets a hand around his dick: still hard, as confused as he is. Dean whines. He can’t come again, not like this. But then Ken is thumbing his cockhead, jacking Dean's swollen dick in time with the big cock churning inside him. Dean comes hard and sudden when Ken’s hand brushes against his bruised nipple. He can feel his whole body clamp down, pumping, contracting, triggering Ken’s climax.

Ken lies on top, hips grinding, until Dean stops shaking, then gives his ass an affectionate slap. Dean goes breathless at the strange new feeling of cock leaving his body. The mattress shifts as Ken sprawls out behind him with a contented sigh.

A moment later, there’s a jaw-cracking yawn. “Stay a little,” Ken suggests, already sounding drowsy. “Take a shower. Gimme a half-hour, I could go again.”

Dean is hot and sore and suddenly too tired to think. He finds it unreasonably difficult to pry his fingers from the edge of the mattress.

“Here,” Ken reaches over him to fumble in the bedside drawer and comes up with a slim roll of dollars. He sets it on the nightstand. “Case you decide to stay.”

Next to the money is the plain hotel clock. It says 10:38. It hasn’t even been three hours since Dean had walked into the hotel bar with Kyle’s ID in his pocket. Surprising: it had seemed much later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I say it was only going to be 3 chapters? Yes. Yes, I did.

Not long after midnight, Ken reaches for Dean again. Blearily, Dean makes out the red numbers on the clock, the unfamiliar lamp on the nightstand, but it still takes him a moment to determine where he is. Where had the time gone? He remembers stumbling to his feet and navigating toward the hotel bathroom. A shower, Ken had suggested, and Dean—sweaty, sore, and sticky—had needed it. He remembers silently locking the bathroom door and studying himself in the mirror while the room filled with steam. A muscle in his thigh twinged from where Ken had pushed Dean’s leg over his shoulder, and his hole had felt slick and swollen under a tentative finger. But other than a blood-dark hickey just under his collarbone, he had looked the same as always. He remembers being a little surprised by that.

Dean remembers gathering up his clothes, distinctly recalls his plan to clean up and make a quick escape, to take the money and run. During the shower, something had changed. The water, hot and plentiful, had been rejuvenating, and in the privacy of the bathroom, Dean had felt an unexpected surge of _pride_: he had done it. Hunters revere promises, oaths, vows, despite living lives that make it impossibly hard to keep their word. But Dean had told his Dad he would look after Sammy, and he had done just that. The envelope of money is enough to get them to Bobby’s, or buy food and school shoes, or settle up with Mrs. Manjoor. Options. Freedom. The Winchester brothers have choices now, bought and paid for. Dean suddenly wishes he could call Kyle and tell him all about it.

Tucking a thick hotel towel around his waist, feeling might pleased with himself, Dean had found himself thinking about Ken’s cock in his mouth. He’d only done that once or twice with Kyle, but he’d been flattered by the way it had made the older boy groan and curse (“Jesus fuck, Dean, you and your cocksucking mouth…”). Kyle’s vocabulary was usually PG-13, because he spent so much time with his kid sisters, but Dean liked to know he could make him forget all that. Ken would like it, Dean thinks: he’d get off on how puffy Dean’s lips get, on the way he tears up the first time the cock touches the back of his throat. He’d call Dean _pretty _again. 

Dean had turned the thought in his mind, considering. Dad _will _return eventually, he always does—there might not be another chance. Dean had just about made up his mind to do it, but when he unlocks the bathroom door, he finds Ken has fallen asleep amidst the tousled bedclothes.

For a second, Dean had thought about taking the remaining money and leaving (“stay,” Ken had said, “shower”—and Dean had: not his fault the guy had fallen asleep). He had hesitated, killed time by padding across the room to fiddle with the air conditioner. After the motel’s temperamental A/C, Ken’s room had felt glacial. Dean’s newly-washed skin prickled with goosebumps, his nipples peaked. The hotel bed is so large and luxurious that Ken hadn’t even stirred when Dean had sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. He had turned off the bedside lamp. The roll of dollar bills next to the alarm clock was still visible in the dim light that filtered through the hotel’s elaborate window treatments. Dean doesn’t believe you can ever have _enough _money, but he also knows how far you can stretch very little. He doesn’t _need_ the extra money. But he wants it. And he wants something else too. He hates the idea of getting dressed, sneaking out, walking home along the highway like he’s just left the mechanic’s shop, like it’s the end of just another work day...

So it’s 12:17 AM, according to the motel clock, when Ken tugs at Dean’s towel. Dean hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep after his shower. He can’t remember if he’d meant to or not.

There’s less kissing this time, Ken already swollen and eager. “Been watchin’ you sleep, beautiful,” he pants against Dean’s shoulder, “jus’ couldn’t wait any longer.” Dean is disoriented, half-awake. The bedside lamp bothers his eyes. His mouth is parched and thick with sleep; he starts to object when Ken’s dick jabs his back, but all that comes out is a hoarse, wordless caw. His body protests for him: tight, writhing, dry.

“Goddamn,” Ken grumbles to himself, pinning Dean with a hand on his lower back while he reaches to the nightstand. But he regains his patience when he palms Dean’s asscheeks apart—Dean can feel his own hole clenching as he imagines Ken looking down at it, exposed. His hips jump when Ken’s lubed thumb touches the tight pucker. “Yeah, that’s what you want,” Ken says. Dean doesn’t disagree.

Two fingers. Dean bites back a whine when Ken forces in a third—“c’mon, you can take it.” Penetration is…strange, now. The first time, Dean had been a little drunk, high off his orgasm and his own daring, not totally sure what to expect. Now he’s sleepy, used, vaguely though not unpleasantly sore. He burrows his head into the blankets, panting against the stretch, when Ken shoves a pillow under his hips and starts to work his way in. And it _is_ work: Dean’s body arches against the fullness, he can’t—it won’t… They both groan when Dean’s hole relents enough to grip Ken’s big cockhead. 

Dean can feel every inch as Ken opens him. Every breath moans. (_“While they’re fucking me. Think about the noises you make,”_ Kyle had told him. And Dean had always thought of himself as the quiet one.) He pushes himself up to his hands and knees, digs his fingers into the sheets. His head hangs loose between his shoulders. He can’t quite seem to hold it up, so he sees things upside down: Ken’s big hands curled around his waist, his strong thighs lined up behind Dean’s own. Ken’s hand comes down to cup Dean’s cock—soft, feels like it belongs to someone else until he starts to play with the foreskin the way Dean likes, the way that makes pleasure bloom along Dean’s spine. 

“That’s it,” Ken murmurs and Dean flushes hot at the awareness of how intimately Ken can feel his enjoyment. Embarrassed, he suddenly wants this part to be over with. What does a guy have to do to get fucked around here? He jerks his hips back so sharply the stretch makes him gasp. 

“You want more? Jesus, you’re so tight for me! Fucking natural,” Ken takes the bait, pushes forward until Dean imagines he can feel cock in his belly. When Ken starts moving, long strokes that hook right into Dean’s core, it doesn’t take long. Soon, Dean has electricity coursing all the way to his toes. He twists, gets an arm around Ken’s shoulder, manages a sloppy kiss. “”m cumming,” he moans, remembering how he’d thrilled to hear those words from Kyle, “You’re making me cum…”

Ken turns him bodily onto his back and Dean _shouts_ when he pulls out only to slot the whole, hot length of his cock back in one thrust. The shock of it staves off his orgasm, but just for a moment. Because Ken is holding him down, hands kneading Dean’s pecs, bucking into hard enough to lift Dean’s hips right off the bed. He is muttering something—Dean almost can’t hear it over the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears: “Lemme see, lemme see.” Six hours ago, Dean was a virgin, so maybe it’s not saying much, but the kinkiest thing he’s ever done is fling his arms wide and let Ken watch as he tumbles into orgasm.

Ken pounds him through it and Dean just holds on. He comes again when Ken does, the man grunting and pushing in like he’s not already as deep as he can go. A slut, that’s what Mrs. Manjoor had called Kyle’s mother, and Dean supposes this is the sort of thing she did with all her boyfriends: opened her legs and held them inside, let them lick her nipples and call her _gorgeous_ and _baby_ and _green eyes_. Well, maybe not that last one. 

Dean drifts. He dozes. He wakes and sleeps again, each time forgetting where he is, and then remembering. The hotel phone buzzes and he hears Ken answer it: a distant, perky voice from the front desk—a wake-up call. The phone clicks back into the cradle; a second later, Ken kisses the skin between Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean is not stupid, not a romantic: he knows Ken has done this sort of thing before, in other hotels, in other boys—but he can’t help but think he sounds a little regretful when he mumbles, “Plane to catch, baby.”

“Mmm,” Dean allows himself one final luxurious stretch into the bedding, still comfortable though despoiled. He cracks one eyelid. Ken coasts a hand down Dean’s back and over his flank, the way Dean’s Dad admires the curves of the Impala after it’s been washed. At some point, one of them had woken enough to turn off the harsh bedside lamp, so the room is lit by the pearlescent light of an early August morning. Dean sees it properly for the first time and it looks like what it is: expensive, anonymous, forgettable. There is a lot of beige that only looks golden because of the dawn leaking through the curtains. 

“Before you, uh. Go….can I…?,” Dean’s voice creaks with sleep. He pauses when he sees Ken’s expression. Clearly, he’s not used to his local guides making suggestions. On the other hand, having Dean in his bed seems to have put him in an excellent mood.

“Yeah?”

“Uhm, I wanna.” After everything, _this _is what makes Dean blush: he can feel the heat creeping down his neck, over his chest. He hates having to ask for things. “On top?”

Ken flops back amidst the pillows. “Jesus, you are going to be the fucking death of me, green eyes. Don’t know where Jeff found you, but fucking hell.”

_Jeff B._ had been the name on the slip of paper that Kyle had given him. Dean wonders if Ken will stay at this hotel again. Kyle had said that some of the business travelers were regulars, stopping in every eight weeks as they passed through the Midwestern market. He imagines Ken talking to Jeff, asking for more of that kid from last time, the one with the green eyes. Of course, Dean will be long gone by then: off on the road with Dad, hunting things, saving people—or at least, over with Uncle Bobby, making himself useful while Sam starts the school year.

Dean sits up in a tangle of sheets. He figures Ken’s words mean _yes_…but he’s not actually sure what to do next. Ken, lazily jacking his dick toward hardness, seems to realize this. His hand speeds up, aroused by Dean’s obvious uncertainty. “C’mere,” he says, “can’t believe you haven’t—fuck, gimme your hand.” Dean holds out his palm; one-handed, Ken paints a thick line of lube along his fingers. “Wanna watch you,” he pants, “lemme see.”

Strangers, Kyle had told him, are people you’re never going to meet again. So Dean lets Ken see it all: the twitch of his hips at the first cool lick of lube on his hole, the way he bites his lip when he has to take more than two fingers—easier this morning than ever before, even the ungainly way he shuffles his knees wider to get the sweetest angle. He thinks about asking for a condom, but it’s too late to worry about it. He watches the way Ken watches him, with one hand rough on his thick cock, the other pinching his own nipple. 

When Dean’s hips start rocking back onto his slippery fingers, Ken curses and pulls his wrist away. “You’re ready,” he assures Dean.

Straddling Ken’s waist, Dean is aware of an ache in his hips. How many times…? He knows now how to breathe and lean into the insistent pressure of Ken’s dick so he takes it with little more than a whimper. It doesn’t feel quite as aggressive this time. Maybe that’s due to the quiet calm of the morning, or to the fact that Ken has come almost as often as Dean has. Four times, Dean calculates, plus a vague memory of dribbling onto Ken’s fist as he’d rutted against Dean’s thigh in the early morning hours, but that might have been a dream. Now Dean circles his hips and feels himself filling up until he finally settles on top of Ken’s body, triumphant. Under him, Ken is flushed and glassy-eyed. He strokes one palm up Dean’s side to hesitantly touch the bruised kiss at his collarbone, like he’s seeing it for the first time.

That spark of sensation makes Dean tremble and he is keenly aware of how he tightens around Ken. They do nothing more than look at each other, breathing shallowly, until Ken’s hands settle on the small of Dean’s back, fingers fanning out on his ass, breaking the spell. The first little nudge aligns Ken’s cockhead with Dean’s prostate, but instead of electricity, there is a rich warmth. The silence, the cool morning, the light, the night of broken sleep: Dean moves slow and easy, tired and sore. The dream-like quality is enhanced by the fact that if he turns his head, he can see a boy’s torso, pale except for a farmer’s tan. He is the boy: that his reflection bobbing in the bathroom mirror; he’d left the door open after his shower. He feels good, but he doubts he can come again until Ken’s captures his wrist and wraps their joined hands around his cock. Now Dean can see what Ken has seen. Pink rushes into his reflection’s cheeks, his mouth falls open, green eyes gleam. Ken is right: he’s gorgeous.

Dean swipes a bottle of water from the minifridge when he hears Ken turn on the shower. That and a fistful of tissues from a hotel-branded box: he’ll clean up properly when he’s back at the motel. It’s barely 6 AM; he’ll be back before Sammy is even awake, won’t even have to fight him for the hot water. Dean checks his pocket for the envelope of cash. He’s got the money from the nightstand and an extra couple of fifties Ken had handed him when he’d gone into the bathroom. “I’ll leave the door open,” he’d winked, but Dean knew it was a flirtation more than an offer. He’s not even sure Ken had even come that last time, though he’d seemed to enjoy the show. 

In his pocket of his jeans, along with the carefully folded envelope, is Kyle’s fake ID and the slip of paper on which he’d written the phone number for his contact at this hotel. Dean studies the ID. The picture is blurry: recognizably Kyle only if you know Kyle, and enough like any generic teenager to fool last night’s bartender. He tucks it back into his pocket. The much-folded page with the phone number he smoothes out against the faded denim thigh of his jeans. He could call again next week, see if there was any need for another local guide. Hell, he could call _tomorrow_. Without Kyle, there’s a gap in the market. Dad won’t be back for weeks. Sammy is old enough to take care of himself for the night if Dean puts the fear of God into him and reminds him to put out salt. Dean could be _beautiful _ and _darling _every night of the week. He lets himself consider it for a moment. Then he pops the nightstand drawer open, slides the phone number between two random pages of the Gideon’s Bible he finds inside, and walks out of the hotel room before he can change his mind.


End file.
